


Wrath

by MarigoldLox



Series: The 7 [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Lots of Angst, Other, im sorry, may not follow a linear timeline for a while, original story with original characters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-20
Updated: 2017-01-20
Packaged: 2018-09-18 17:53:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9396455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MarigoldLox/pseuds/MarigoldLox
Summary: One of the many stories of my OCs. As the title says, it shall be about Wrath. Six other stories will accompany this one.Spanning across thousands of years, this is a collection of stories accounting the life and dealings of one of The 7.





	

   The gentle trilling of birds waking the world sounded outside the thin windows. Nothing unnatural broke the hair-thin atmosphere surrounding the quaint little cottage. Esme drifted through the house silently, fearful of breaking the serenity. Their eyes fluttered shut when they had reached the table pushed against the wall. The collar around their throat felt too tight, too out of place for the innocence of this dwelling. It was left on the worn table before they waltzed to the next room.

   How long had their love been gone? They ticked off each month on their lacquered nails, ending at a single hand. “Five moons-” they draped themself over the couch, “-Five moons since you have left me, Cathan.” The aforementioned man had left to lead a battle on the outskirts of his clan’s kingdom. Every military needs a general to lead the charge. War was a horrid issue in this world. Humans pillage, rape, and burn those who defy them. Esme’s hand clenched into a fist so tight their knuckles paled. A tremor escaped their chest to let out the anger stained breath within them.

   Rose-hued irises distracted themselves upon the nearby window. The sight was familiar but no less beautiful. Grass-covered hills rolled infinitely from the horizon line, punctuated by thick trees tucked into each dip of a hill. Esme was thankful for Cathan’s preference of seclusion. The views were pure in every sense; although humans were expanding rapidly, they had yet to reach this abode. They could practically taste the crisp air that swirled against the thin glass, slipping through cracks in the windowsill. It blew forth and further mussed their already disorderly locks. The wind carried a comforting note of leather and freshly struck steel. Oh…

   They willed their limp muscles to life as they leaped off the worn cushion. They knew that scent, oh how they knew it. It was ingrained into the wood of this home and into Esme’s own clothing. Sometimes they could even catch it when they were miles away from this place. No amount of running streams or raging salt water could wash this scent from their tawny flesh. Esme raced back to the bedroom, diving over the small bed to tumble in front of the handmade chest. Out from it, they pulled silk garments ranging in color from deep black to snow white. They bedecked themself in rich fuchsia and endless black. The silks adorned their body like never ending oozes of precious metals. Their bare feet padded without a sound against the ancient flooring, a black train of silk dancing around their ankles.

   Outside, a man was slowly materializing over the hill. As romantic as it would be to say he had not changed at all, that he was just as handsome as they day he departed, Esme could pick out the differences etched onto Cathan’s form. His originally cropped, flaming red locks now reached his shoulders and was accompanied by a gradual dusting of facial hair. Vicious scars stretched across his lips and throat, wiping out any pigment that had previously settled that patch of flesh. One hand buried itself into his pocket while the other clutched the shoulder strap of his pack. Cathan’s stride was filled with a certain air of confidence one feels after a tremendous accomplishment.

   Esme crashed against the door frame but was saved by their nails that sank into the wood. They could feel their heart pound within their chest with each step that Cathan took over the hill. Nerves began to set in - their foot tapping wildly - but were quelled when their love had reached the top of the hill. His smile...oh that rare smile. Something was different about the smile that Cathan donned this morning. This smile wasn’t one that could be found in any barrack, bar, or battle ground. The expression hardly moved his cheeks or bared his teeth, keeping his expression soft. The feeling seemed to seep throughout Cathan’s entire being, going as far as to relax his shoulders and soften his normally cold eyes. Esme’s sighed was cut off by a snicker, “Get the lead out of your boots, I’m lonely in here.” It wasn’t unbearable to watch Cathan take his sweet time strolling and taking in the scenery of his home once again but he had been gone for almost half a year; he had more than enough time to take this all in after some alone time.

   Cathan stopped in his tracks abruptly. His jade colored eyes scanned over the sparsely inhabited area aside from his small home. The conditions could not be more perfect than they were today. The sun was hidden behind thick, snowy clouds but light still touched the fields. Every inch of the flora surrounding them was in full bloom, filling the world with vibrant greens, blues, pinks, and yellows. He sighed as he ran a hand through his hair. The grime of blood and sweat still clung to it even after all of his impromptu baths he had along the way home.

   He dug his hand into his pocket, curling around a small ring of silver. A military salary wasn’t a lot, it was sufficient for day-to-day life but nowhere near enough for luxury. Cathan Ó Ceithearnaigh was a complicated man. Early on in life, he knew of how cruel this world was and continued to be. The weak, that is, less affluent, were weeded out by horrid disease, famine, war, and ultimately, death. He could easily recall the trembling, emaciated children cast out to the streets, abandoned as bastards. Mothers and their children were commonly buried together upon the same day while the higher classes were ensured a first birthday. Cathan was not exempt from these atrocities now. He was not blind to destruction he and the men he commanded wrought on the battlefield. Brothers, sons, fathers, and husbands were cut down before they could even lay eyes upon the flaming haired beast of a man. There was no excuse except for the hunger to not let his own people become those bastards in his youth. Shaking himself free of his thoughts, Cathan stepped forward to restart his trek. Their eyes were trained upon his steps with a lingering, drag up his well toned chest and prominent collarbone. Perhaps they were being too indulgent of their senses and desires. Esme smiled softly, “The General Ó Ceithearnaigh lives!”

   “Don’t tempt the gods, darling sin.”  
   “The gods can expect all of Hell in their way with that talk, Cathy dear.”

   This complicated man lived with complicated situations. All sounds suddenly ceased just as Cathan stepped down. A whistling filled the air only to be quickly muffled by the wet cracking of flesh and bone. A shrill scream accompanied the chorus of imminent death. As if he were made of dust, Cathan crumbled to the ground. Bright, cherry-hued blood dribbled from his pale lips and bloomed across the middle of his chest and back. From behind him, a short man, clean in appearance but terror filled his eyes lowered a tremoring bow. The assailant hunched over, nerves freeing his muscles from their previous strict hold on him. He watched with wide, unblinking eyes as his enemy tumbled lifeless down the incline. The jewel toned foliage was now stained with jagged streaks of rust, marking where Cathan was fell.

   They snapped out of their perverted ogling when an ear piercing shriek awoke them. As they bolted from the field, Esme dashed forth to stop Cathan’s fall. They collided with a dull thud, Esme folding over on their knees and shielding their love’s body. Large, salty tears rolled down their cheeks and off the tip of their chin, onto Cathan’s face, mixing with blood, staining his already battle marred visage. The tears wouldn’t stop falling, they just wouldn’t! Esme ran their fingers through and over Cathan’s hair. “It’ll be okay..it’ll be okay.” They blubbered hurriedly. It wasn’t clear if that was said to comfort the dying man or Esme’s own nerves. What do they do, what do they do, what do they do? Esme chewed their bottom lip, nearly reaming the flesh from their mouth. They angled Cathan’s head to the side so he wouldn’t choke on his own blood but he kept looking back up. “Stop it-” they hissed every time Cathan looked up, eyes beginning to gloss over, “-Stop it!” They were trying to help him...why was he trying to drown himself in his own blood?

   Without warning, Cathan snatched Esme’s hand. He clutched it as tight as he could, shaking and wheezing with effort . General Ó Ceithearnaigh was terrified. Nothing was making sense and every sensation was muddled. All he could see was sky, darkness, Esme, sky, Esme, tears, and the mantra went on. Blood was thick on his tongue, practically glueing the organ to the roof of his mouth. His body began to convulse, begging for oxygen. His own tears mixed with the bloodied stains upon his face and matted his beard. The only thing that pained Cathan more than the arrow embedded in his chest was watching Esme bawl, clawing at him, begging him to stay. With the very last amount of consciousness he could muster up, Cathan Ó Ceithearnaigh shakily reached up to cup Esme’s cheek. A smile, bearing blood stained teeth curled his chapped lips before his body fell lax upon his lover.

   A scream of anguish, sorrow, and death escaped Esme’s mouth. It tore through their entire being and left them empty. There they kneeled, panting, covered in tears and blood, their beloved strangled by his own body. “Come back. Please, come back.”

   He didn’t deserve this, Cathan was hardly an adult.

 

   It was a full two days until someone found them. Esme had not moved an inch from their spot, Cathan still laid up against them. Unwilling to part with their beloved, they were forcibly torn, wailing and scratching, away from Cathan in order for the funeral procession to commence. 

   The days dragged on, one by one, until a full week had passed. As tradition, Cathan’s family and acquaintances were not to be sad but to feast and make merry, celebrating his life. Esme couldn’t force themself to do that. For the first time in the vast millennia of their life, Esme could not fulfill anything they were created for. Everything was either too loud, too heavy, or nothing was felt at all. Their hair matted in thick patches of mangy blond while their eyes were puffed from hours of wailing. “Even the banshees silence their mourning to listen…” Just as their lips began to quiver and their cheeks began to flush, a gentle rapping sounded. 

   With great effort, Esme heaved themself from their formerly shared bed to answer the call. “Yes?” Their sullen eyes widened at the sight of a familiar face, the woman at the door was Cathan’s sister. “I’m not here to cry with you,” she had always been distant from the blond, “We found this in Cathy’s pocket when we were changing his clothing.” She roughly shoved a small pouch into Esme’s hand before yanking them to her chest. “This is your fault,”  she spat,  and shoved them back before  slamming the door. The sack was a small thing, hardly the size of an apple. Though worn from age and use, the sack retained a velveteen texture, soft against Esme’s skin. Esme emptied the contents on the slowly rotting table and nearly choked on their breath. A small, silver ring clattered and spun across the splintered surface of the table before coming to a swirling halt on its side. It was picked up slowly with trembling fingers before being slipped onto their left hand. Once more, the banshees had a song of mourning to be audience to.  

   Eventually, with much effort and reluctance, Esme had forced themself to leave their former home. Too many hisses of fury and wails of despair made their home there, and Esme needed to resume their duties. Absolute destruction had followed soon after the fall of General Ó Ceithearnaigh. It took them no time at all to pack their things in a small shoulder bag. Everything, memories and items, was folded up and shoved down to protect their essence. 

   A hood and mask were slid over their pale visage to protect them from any danger to come in their imminent escape. There had been too many reports of assaults, robberies, and slaughters committed against those  walking idly with their belongings, now that there was no leader to command the legions. Faster….faster....faster! Lust was now in a full sprint through the woods to separate themself from that damned house and that damned field with blood stained, dying grass. The mask over their mouth became damp with each exhale of thick breath, suffocating Esme. When their legs collapsed, they pushed themself up and kept trudging along. They had no idea how many miles they had rushed before their feet were bleeding and the sky had darkened.

   Requiring rest, Esme reclined against a tree, staring absently at the smoky sky. Fires that raged all day from burning villages had finally died and covered the vibrant constellations in stone colored ash and smoke. The only thing that could be seen in the pitch black was the miniscule gleam of their ring. A sigh seeped from their lips while they tore the mask away. Perhaps they could rest their eyes a while before setting out again, even if they ought to be far away from here very soon to avoid any unnecessary interaction. Just as their mind began to drift into unconsciousness, the sound of thunder struck the ground. 

   Thunder heralded fire in this dryness. Immediately, Esme jumped up, sling their mask back into place. Their body went rigid as they prepared to run at the first sight of an ember. Only, the sparks and flashes never came. The sound continued but nothing followed. The thundering grew  louder and louder each second they stood idle beneath the dying foliage. Without any thought, Esme began running again. The sound followed. Every time they sped up or switched their path, the sound behind them carried through the treacherous landscape with relentless perseverance. At the last second, they dove into a bush and let the thundering pass them. Thorns stuck into their chest and legs as they were caught by the bramble hidden within. They were suddenly thankful for this when the screaming started. These screams were of true agony, not entirely  different than their period of mourning not long ago. Shakily, they unweaved themself from the thorns to silently tumble behind the surrounding trees. They carefully peeked over to see what the source of the wretched sounds were. 

   A beast stood before a flaming house, rearing up onto powerful haunches and screeching. It landed back onto the ground with an audible slam before galloping in a circle.  With four legs on the ground again, Esme was able  to notice a rider upon the beast’s back. How was she not set aflame with the plumes of fire that sprouted from the horse-like creature’s neck? One could easily overlook the rider upon the back of the unearthly horse.  Far larger than any bred by humans, smoke billowing from its nostrils, and the constant gnashing of the bit shoved into its mouth, this blood red horse seemed to ache to move on.  

   A second equine joined the scene. This one was a gangly, sickly looking foal with a child upon its back. Chains sank into the flesh around its thin throat and buried into its front legs, and the harness was embedded into its skull-like face, yet it showed no signs of the pain an earthly creature would suffer. Tufts of patchy black hair sprouted along its barely existent mane and tail. The child that mounted this beast was equally as pallid. Her eyes were a milky white and her skin looked dead, ready to flake off. She fell into a violent coughing fit almost after every breath that forced her chest to take in the putrid air. 

   A third limped beside its frail counterpart. It could have easily been mistaken for a skeleton. Each bone was outlined by fur, and matted by dirt and scabs. The horse would occasionally swing its skull-like head back and tear away parts of its own flesh, devouring its own body. Its muzzle had peeled to show the bleach white bone that lay beneath. The woman perched upon its back was equally as gaunt as her mount. From time to time she would push her clothing back onto her bony frame to remain clothed. Any place her mount stepped, flesh and hair would fall then quickly dissolve. Her hands shook with each tug on the brittle reins to back herself away from the flames. 

   The three mounts immediately came to attention, seemingly without provocation and a thick, serene silence flowed forth. Esme flattened themself closer to the ground as the group before them circled around. The air in their throat choked them as a wispy hoof dug into the dry earth . As the mount continued on, the ground around each step seems to shrivel away and pale. This oversized mount was pure white and ethereal. Wisps of white smoke billowed around a skeletal frame, giving it a faux form. The rider was garbed in thick layers of brown and black clothes, tied off with bandages wrapped tight around extremities. A hood spilled over their face, obscuring any hopes of a glimpse of identity. This person possessed a regal aura underscored by their stiff posture and their gliding step. 

   The final figure to join seemed out of place. His mount was a thick, black stallion, monstrous in size but not in appearance. Jagged armor was bound by thick chains and harnessed onto the beast. It thrashed about in the attempt to assert itself in the group. Powerful hoofbeats shook the ground with each thundering stomp and kick. Steam curled from its nostrils with each hiss of breath, only becoming silent when the rider heaved upon its reins. The rider was only seen from behind, presumably male. Glimpses through the tatters of his clothing showed his back was matted with scar tissue and burns from this raid. An axe was slid from the saddle bag and tosses idly in the air. The fire burning around them illuminated his abused but sturdy figure. Something seemed amiss with this man. He was too foreign to be counted as a member with the four other riders. He was practically unscathed when compared to the others who bared innumerable marks of destruction. Esme’s worries were confirmed as he forced his mount to turn on itself.

   All breath was vacuumed from their lungs when the rider was in full view. Formerly jade green eyes were now the shade of freshly pounded steel, and cast a look of disdain across the burning landscape. His red hair appeared to melt into the flames behind him. Dark animal hide slacks and a simple (almost crude) white shirt clung to his frame while a long, handmade coat hung off his shoulders. The front of his shirt was slashed open to reveal a large section of mismatched flesh in the center of his chest. It was still in the process of healing; Esme could easily separate the hints of bone, tendon, yellow chunks of fat, and puffed scar tissue. They froze in place, unwilling to move from their spot. Their legs jerked to life when the flaming-haired man jumped from his horse and began to slowly stride towards their hiding spot. Esme scrambled across the ground, tears slowly rolling down their cheeks. 

   “Stop, Wrath.” A ghostly voice whispered. It sounded like a whisper but Esme could not discern what was real anymore. The voice wrapped around the trees and buried itself deep within the soil, offering comfort but also unease to those it graced. Esme peaked around the tree they had backed up against to catch a glimpse of the scene. The man once called… Cathan… or now, more fittingly, Wrath, stood before the ghostly figure and their mount, growling feraly. Esme watched in astonishment as Wrath trudged back onto his horse and whistled. The other three riders all rose to attention with a haunting shriek of destruction. As one, the four rode off with blazing speed, summoning screams from the land with each gallop. The wraithlike rider and stallion lingered amongst the ashes and smoke. They appeared as though they were looking out over the land with a sense of forlorn longing. That gaze was then shifted towards Esme’s hidden spot, “You now have your seven, sin. Run back to your master with the news. He will join the rest shortly.” Once again their voice audibly drifted closer and closer to the trembling figure upon the ragged ground, each utterance of ‘ _ s’ _ ushering a fresh flow of tears.  

   On trembling legs, Esme….Lust rose up slowly then ran. They ran and ran until their body gave up and fell through the flaming earth back to their master. 

   “We are complete.”

 


End file.
